


New York, New York

by InkBlackBoots



Series: New York, New York - the neighbor AU [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: But here it is, M/M, Neighbor au, and then i tried to write it, but my friend had such a good idea, enjoy, it's v dumb, very fluffy silly au, which was not entirely of my creation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:59:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkBlackBoots/pseuds/InkBlackBoots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Buchanan Barnes gets a new apartment and new, exciting neighbors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Syain](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Syain).



“Yeah… Yeah… No, I understand that. Goodbye, Mr. Lewinsky.”

The phone clicked dead on the other end, but James Buchanan Barnes did not put it down right away. He stood frozen on the floor in his drab apartment, having still not quite understood what his janitor had just told him. _New rules, Barnes. We can’t allow you to have the dog anymore. Either get rid of it, or get out._ There had been a brief pause before a politely sympathetic “sorry” followed. He did not know how long he stood there as if carved out of ice. A wet snout pushed against his one hand that still had functioning nerves. It was his beloved Labrador, Zimah, the reason he was now getting kicked out, who wanted his attention. James Buchanan Barnes, a war veteran from Ukraine on early retirement, let the phone fall to the floor with a clatter that prompted several angry knocks on the floor from his downstairs neighbors, and wrapped his arms around his only friend in the world. Zimah whimpered in much more earnest sympathy than Mr. Lewinsky and tried to lick his face. James Buchanan Barnes let him. Amidst his horror over the impeding loss of the only safe place he had, he was already wondering how to find a new place by the end of next week. It was the dog or the house, and James Buchanan Barnes sure as hell was not going to lose the dog. So instead, he broke the one rule that you are never, ever, supposed to break.

He called his ex.

Natasha Romanoff knocked on his door a few hours later, dressed in black from head to toe. She had not bothered with changing from her barista uniform, aside from losing the dark brown apron, before going to see the distressed man. Besides, she liked the color. No one could touch her while she was wearing black. She held out her arms as soon as he opened the door and hugged him.

“Hey, Bucky,” she said. James Buchanan Barnes relaxed visibly from hearing his old nickname. He and Natasha had been together for ages, but had broken it off a few weeks before he had gone to Ukraine. It just had not worked out any more, and they had both known that.

“Hey, Nat,” he mumbled into her shoulder. Natasha held him out at arm’s length and studied him carefully. Bucky had been looking more and more haggard and nervous every time she saw him. She absentmindedly squatted down to pet Zimah.

“So, what’s new? I mean, you don’t really call me much these days. Usually it’s me taking the initiative. You’re practically a hermit by now. So what happened to make you call me all of a sudden?”

Bucky rubbed his left arm that was not really there anymore. He stared at a scratch on the floor as he explained the situation to Nat: that he would have to find a new place to live, or get rid of Zimah, who was currently busy being rubbed behind the ear. The good thing about Natasha was that she instantly understood why getting rid of the dog was not an option. Zimah had become much more than a pet; he was a constant companion to the retired soldier and by far the thing he valued the most in a life of seemingly decreasing importance. Natasha rose from the floor with a thoughtful expression.

“Y’know, one of my friends recently mentioned that the apartment next to his just became available. Why don’t we go check that out? It’s open, light, not too far from the Academy…”

Bucky winced.

“I’m not so sure about the Academy, Nat. I’m looking for someplace kinda quiet.”

“And that’s what you have here? With the train tracks right outside your window? It’s as quiet as it gets in New York, Bucky. Trust me, it’s fine. Besides, I know of one decent neighbor you’ll have. Steve’s a good guy.” It was an argument he had lost before he even begun. He sighed.

“Will you help me move?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original title was "Bucky the Squirrel Moves Out".


	2. Moving In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky moves into his new apartment with help from Natasha and her ~~un~~ willing friends.

Despite Natasha’s threats about the new apartment being light and open and close to a horrifying amount of busy people, Bucky found that he actually quite liked it. It was small; just a bedroom, a bathroom, and kitchen/living room that according to a narrow, but consistent line in the floor had once been two separate rooms, but had decided to commit some sort of reverse mitosis and become one instead. Light wooden floors, white walls. Plenty of opportunities for him to put his own mark on it, as Nat had put it. Bucky had no idea what it meant. He owned no paintings, no rugs, no fancy and highly unnecessary spice racks. Objects held no sentimental value for him. The only things he had actually really wanted to bring were his ancient gramophone and his collection of ‘40s jazz vinyl records. Nat had persuaded him to bring things like plates and his bed. She had also, despite Bucky’s protests, made two of her friends help bringing up and assembling the sparse furniture.

A tall, black man with a wide grin shook his hand and introduced himself as Sam. Bucky introduced himself as Bucky and tried to do the same with the other man, a fellow with dirty blond hair and a look like he had not had his daily gallon of coffee yet. The blond man scratched the back of his neck.

“Could you say that and look at me while you do it? I gotta read your lips.” He smiled and pointed at his ear. “Firework incident when I was a kid. Nasty thing, firework. It’s pretty and all, but I’m not so fond of the bangs. ‘Course, now the bangs aren’t a problem,” he chuckled, and Bucky felt a rush of sympathy.

“I know the feeling,” he replied. “I’m Bucky, Bucky Barnes.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Clint Clint Barton.”

Natasha shoved an elbow in Clint’s ribs. He looked at her, dumbfounded.

_Be nice to him, man. He just moved here. I want him to like it._

_Alright, alright. Jeez. I was just making a joke to make him feel more welcome. Sorry._

_Yeah, it’s okay. I’m just worried that it’ll screw him up if he doesn’t like his first day here._

_Don’t worry, I’ll look out…_

Bucky stared at the two, trying and failing completely to make any sense of what was going on. He turned to Sam with a puzzled expression. Sam just rolled his eyes.

“They like to pretend they’re super secret spies by using sign language as their personal code. Don’t give them any attention for it. The last time I commented on it, they refused to speak normally around me for four days.”

Bucky laughed uneasily as he picked up the box with his gramophone in it. Finding out that Natasha shared a secret language with another person made him feel a little empty. Sam patted him on the shoulder while the rapid, silent dialogue behind them continued.

“C’mon, let’s get you settled in.”

* * *

“Why does it all have to be in Swedish?”

Clint threw a manual on the floor and soon followed suit in complete dejection over the number of incomprehensible instructions. Sitting next to him, Zimah looked at him with large, brown eyes.

“Yeah, I know, boy, I know,” he mumbled at the ceiling before reaching up to scratch Zimah’s belly. “I shouldn’t give up this easily. I’ve just worked so hard on this damn thing.”

The ‘damn thing’ was supposed to be a shelving unit. Right now, it couldn’t be described as anything else but ‘a pile of assorted and confusing junk that might be useful one day but probably not any time soon’. Sam appeared above him and kicked him lightly in the shin.

“Ow.”

“You spent twenty minutes taking every single thing out of the box it came in and sighing over the manual, Clint. Nat and Bucky already reassembled the bed.”

“And what did you do?”

“I supervised.”

“Fat lot of good you are, then.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Pfff.”

“Hey, why do s’pose that Bucky feller is wearing long sleeves? And gloves? I mean, it’s the middle of May.”

“I dunno, Sam. I asked Nat earlier, but she just said it’s his own business.”

“Huh. Weird.”

“Yeah.”

“…”

“…”

“Want a hand with that shelf?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

If he was honest with himself, Bucky quite liked IKEA furniture. There was something very calming about the simplified drawings and sterile appearance of it all. You could live with IKEA furniture for years and never once be distinguishable from everyone else with IKEA furniture, no matter how much you spilt on it. With help from Natasha, he pushed the single bed up against the far left wall and eyed their work with satisfaction. It almost looked like a bed again.

“Do you think Clint and Sam are done in the living room?” He asked.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” she replied.

They both held still and listened. It was far too quiet, in the way that it’s quiet when someone doesn’t want to be heard. Bucky’s heart was pounding. Where was Zimah? In the living room with the two nutcases, presumably, but there was no quiet scrape of claws against wood, no sniffling, no low yelps. He got to his feet, but was stopped in his tracks by Natasha. She placed her hand against his chest and sent him a look. He nodded and let her exit first, clinging to the left wall as he went.

The living room was completely deserted. No sign that Sam and Clint had ever been there, save a still unfinished shelving unit and an actually finished low table. Presumably, the shelving unit had been too much and they had moved on to simpler things. Bucky looked at Nat, both panicked and relieved that the strangers were gone. The only reason for panic was that Zimah was gone, too. Natasha bit her lip and had just opened her mouth to say something comforting to a mutely gesticulating Bucky, when they heard it - a muffled barking from a few floors down. Bucky threw Nat an exasperated look before rushing into the hallway and gripping the metal rail tightly as he leaned over and looked seven flights down. Clint and Sam were trying to force a worn couch around the narrow stairs. Zimah was the only one enjoying himself.

“Pivot!” Sam shouted from the topmost end of the couch, red in the face.

“Can’t hear you,” Clint replied with stoic calm.

“I said pivoooooot, you deaf caffeine addict!”

“Still can’t hear you.”

Zimah was not doing anything to make their job easier by zooming up and down the stairs, excited by all the sudden activity around him. Bucky sighed and let out a deafening whistle. The Labrador immediately let the couch be couch and jumped up the stairs, taking two steps at a time as though he was still a puppy. He came to a screeching halt before Bucky, who bent down and scratched his neck. Natasha smiled.

“Shame that Steve isn’t home at the moment, really. He’d be no use lifting couches up the stairs, but he’d have kept an eye on Zimah. He loves dogs.”

Bucky only halfway cared. Nat had promised him peace and quiet, and that did not involve playing knock-knock games with the people living around him. He watched as the couch marched past him and listened as a dull thud followed by loud groans escaped his apartment.

“I think I’ve had enough for today,” he mumbled into Zimah’s black fur. Natasha nodded and went inside to chase out her two friends. Bucky only just remembered to thank them as they left. He knew that even if he had not, Natasha would have done it for him. The door shut behind him with a comforting click. The dark red couch looked awfully inviting. Bucky obeyed with a sigh, collapsing on it with his arm slung over his eyes. He could feel Zimah prodding his good arm hanging limply from the couch.

“Welcome home, buddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was the first official chapter! Please let me know what you think.
> 
> F.R.I.E.N.D.S. is love. F.R.I.E.N.D.S. is life.


	3. Shopping Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky runs out of basic items needed for surviving in a 1st world country.

The following couple of weeks were dominated by rearranging all his furniture, so that there was as little empty space to his left at all times as possible, early morning runs with Zimah, and dodging his neighbors and being scolded by Natasha for it.

“Honestly, Bucky, you should really get to know them. I’ll admit that Mrs. Fury downstairs is a little crazy, and her son isn’t exactly normal either, but Steve is really nice. Just go knock on his door or come by the café sometime, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

She really had spent a suspicious amount of time talking about this Steve. Bucky had glimpsed him once or twice through the peephole in his door. He was a scrawny kid with paint blotches on his jeans. Zimah always wagged his tail and looked at him sternly whenever they heard Steve’s light footsteps in the hall. Bucky was of the opinion that Zimah had spent entirely too much time around his redhead ex lately. The fact was that with both Natasha and Zimah wanting to get him to at least talk to the guy, living next door to him, and finding out that Natasha worked with him and presumably had a lot of opportunities to talk to Steve about her eccentric one-armed friend, it was becoming increasingly difficult to simply ignore him. He was sure that someone had knocked on his door a few days ago. He never found out who it was, though, as the surprising noise had sent him fleeing under the kitchen table, where he remained, clutching a knife and ears finely tuned for more unexpected sounds, until he was certain that the would-be intruder had left.

Not even jumpy war veterans with prosthetic limbs and a general dislike of crowds and trains get out of going to the grocery store, however. Bucky watched his supply of milk and toilet paper dwindle with dismay. He scowled at his fridge as if it had personally offended him and left before he lost his courage again. Zimah padded automatically after him out the front door.

Bucky hated supermarkets. The military straight aisles made him think about how simple it would be to shoot someone all the way from the other end of the store. The alarming amount of people made him think about how easy it was for assassins to hide. The constant bombardment of music and children’s howls and too-cheery reminders from invisible ladies in loudspeakers about all the things on sale made him want to cover his ears and escape as fast as he could. He rushed through, grabbing whatever he needed, fleeing through the checkout and practically throwing money at the poor cashier before grabbing his bags with a very hasty “thank you” and continuing his wild flight to safety outside. Why were dogs not allowed in stores, anyway? Zimah was a good boy, he would never do anything to disrupt the remaining order. He might hang around for a bit longer than was necessary in the meat section, but that would be it.

There was, however, no meat section outside to distract him. So where had he gone? Four filled grocery bags landed on the concrete sidewalk. A sickening crunch told Bucky that he would need to go inside to get more eggs, soon. Not that he really cared right now. He clutched at his head with his gloved hands, desperation painted in his face. When they had been in an area that Zimah had already explored to his heart’s content, there had been no issue with leaving him alone outside without a leash. Now it appeared that Bucky would have to keep a sharp eye on him at all times. Where had he gone? People milled around him, some casting odd looks at this distressed grown man dressed in clothes that were far more appropriate for October than May. But true to human nature, none of them said anything. He was not their concern. Bucky took one deep breath after another, feeling a bit calmer. Zimah was smart. He would never get into trouble. All Bucky needed to do would be to check shelters and maybe the police station. He would find his friend. Resigned, he picked up his groceries and headed home. No sense in lugging the things around when looking for Zimah. Well. Maybe the dog treats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a kinda short chapter - alright, very short, it's only like 600 words. But it made sense to split chapter 2 and 3 there. You'll see why next week, haha ;D
> 
> Also, happy Halloween!


	4. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Enter Steven Grant Rogers]

While Bucky had spent his Thursday in his usual, adrenalin fueled way, Steve Rogers had actually had quite a nice day. He had worked the noon shift at the café, which meant he had the rest of the day to be outside and spend some time on his hobby and field of study: art. While working part time was necessary to keep his economical head above water, he would much have preferred it if he could have devoted all his time studying the great impressionist painters and trying to mimic them. As a student of the illustrious **Academy of Very Erratic but Necessary and Generally Efficient Rapacious Studies** , Steve had access to some of the best books on the subject that anyone could ask for. The Academy had been founded by the old Stark family over two centuries ago in an attempt to educate the common man. Even now, there were still a couple of them around - one professor, one engineering student, as far as Steve knew. He did not think there were any more. The Starks were not known for lying low.

Steve had left the café as fast as he could in hopes of catching some of the afternoon sunlight. Central Park was, as always, full of people, but no one paid much attention to the short, skinny, completely unremarkable young man. A friendly breeze ruffled his hair as he walked around in search of a bench, or anywhere else he would have some sort of view. He managed to find a spot next to a couple of pretty girls, who were speaking rapidly in a language he could not recognize. One of them was wearing a bright red hijab. Steve sat down with a small nod and a smile to them before fishing his sketchbook out of his backpack. The way the light fell on them made them an excellent motif, but he was terrified of asking them if it would be alright if he drew them. What if they interpreted it as the cheesy move it was not? He sat frozen, staring at the blank paper, pencil hovering over it and ready to strike. He was still struggling with the ask/don’t ask problem, when he heard a panting sound. In the middle of the day, too. Obscene. Still, like the embodiment of curiosity he was, he lowered his sketchbook, looked around for the source and found it immediately. A black Labrador was sitting in front of him, tongue lolling and looking for all the world as if it was smiling.

“That your dog?”

Steve jumped in his seat, having never expected to be spoken to. The girls were looking expectantly at him.

“N-no, but I think I might know him?” He replied. The Labrador immediately rolled around to lie on its back and proceeded to stare at him with the exact same expectant look as the girls, who giggled.

“He seems to know you, anyway.”

The art enthusiast got on his knees next to the dog and reached out a hand towards the dog’s collar. He was surprised to find that there was none. No collar, no tag, no anything. Just your regular, friendly stray, then. A very well groomed stray. Steve was absolutely certain that he had seen the dog before, and not just because black Labradors were as common as stars in a rural sky. He took a long, hard look at the dog, who stared back at him with disapproval over the missing belly rub.

He had no idea how long he sat with the stray. Steve was the kind of person who could talk to animals for hours without noticing, so perhaps that was exactly how long he spent there in the park. The pen and sketchbook lain forgotten on the bench until Steve’s stomach rumbled and reminded him that he had not really eaten any lunch that day. Packing up, he expected the dog to take the hint and go on its merry way. Instead, it sat up politely and waited for him. _Not stray behavior_ , Steve thought to himself. He decided to ignore it, slung his backpack up on his shoulder and began walking home. The dog immediately followed behind him at a patient trot. Steve stopped dead in his tracks and glanced over his shoulder. It was sitting like it had done in the beginning, grinning as much as a dog could possibly grin without looking like it was about to eat you. Steve hesitantly tried taking a couple more steps. The dog, unsurprisingly, did the same.

“Shoo?” he tried, not quite believing it would have any effect. He was wrong, however, as the Labrador merely shifted its gaze from Steve’s face and onto his feet, before looking back up at him with a glare that reminded Steve altogether too much of Natasha. It was unbearable. He was getting sass from an animal.

The game continued all the way from the park and back to Steve’s apartment building, where he had to face his defeat. The dog clearly had some sort of secret agenda of its own, and had proved impossible to get rid of. He sighed deeply as he unlocked the door. To his surprise, the dog snaked past him and bounded up the stairs without waiting. Steve followed as fast and quietly as he could, as always mildly terrified of Mrs. Fury on the 2nd floor. She was alright if her son was at home, but on her own the old lady was a fearsome opponent, who would mercilessly attack you with invitations to drink coffee and eat rock hard cookies in her very frilly apartment. Steve had been in there more than once and had endured brutal interrogations rivaling those of the Spanish Inquisition about the Academy, his job, and his love life.

Where was the dog even going? Having safely passed Mrs. Fury, Steve took a moment to catch his breath on the 4th floor. He silently begged the dog to slow down. His apartment was just one more floor, and he did not fancy chasing the dog up and down stairs any more than was necessary. Now that it had followed him home, he might as well keep it for the night and then hand it in at a shelter tomorrow. He would never admit it, but the fact that it had found him interesting enough to follow him home secretly pleased him. Even if he was not terrible good at talking to people, animals were a wholly different story. Steve sucked down another shallow breath with his poor, asthmatic lungs and listened for footsteps. None could be heard. Praise the Almighty, had it finally stopped its wild trek and was going to allow Steve to catch up? Who knew?

One step after another, he snuck up the stairs, not wanting to possibly alert the dog and send it running again. To his immense surprise, however, it was politely waiting outside a door on the 5th floor. Not the one that led to Steve’s apartment, though.

Steve had no idea who lived behind the other door. Well, he kind of did, as Natasha often talked about his elusive neighbor. Apparently, he was one of her friends from long ago, and even if she was not speaking directly to Steve about him, she always sent meaningful glances his way whenever he was mentioned. The dog whined for attention and shook the blond out of his oxygen-deprived trance. He looked at it, suddenly very suspicious that the dog was in cahoots with his coworker. Everything spoke for it: the way it had found him, followed him, looked at him, possibly knew where he lived… The dog tossed its head at the door and whined again. Did it want to get inside?

“Sorry, buddy, but I don’t have the key to that,” Steve said as he dug the key that he _did_ have out of his pocket. “But I’m sure the right apartment is just as good as the left one, huh?”

The dog clearly did not believe him as its whining increased in intensity and it began scraping at the door.

“Hey, hey, don’t do tha-“ Steve began as he took a step closer to pull it back. He was too busy attempting to shush the dog, which was making quite the spectacle, to notice the footsteps rapidly approaching from the other side of the door, which was slammed open with such a force that it knocked Steve backwards. Out of sheer luck, he managed to grab onto the banister before tumbling down the stairs.

“Oh my God, are you alright?” A tall, dark haired man practically shouted at him from the door opening as Steve’s eyesight swam back into focus.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said, even though he was not sure. He pulled himself upwards from his awkward, leaned back position on the banister and offered the other man his hand. “I’m Steve, by the wa-“

“Oh my God, Zimah!”

“No, Steeeeeve,” Steve replied. The other man scowled at him as he kneeled beside the dog and ruffled its ears. The pieces finally clicked. “Oh, him!” He blurted out.

“Yes, him. My dog.”

The man rose to his full height, which, if Steve was honest, made him almost as intimidating as Mrs. Fury. His elusive neighbor towered above him. Steve had no idea what to say. He swallowed as the accusing silence settled around him. A mixture of guilt and anger was building in him. Guilt, because the other man’s behavior made him feel as if he had done something very wrong, and anger, because he had no idea what that was supposed to be. He had just opened his mouth to protest, when he heard the unmistakable creak of Mrs. Fury’s door being opened three floors down. He knew it was her, because it was followed by a few shuffling sounds and an ancient voice that sent chills through his bones.

“Everything alright up there?”

The shuffling steps began moving upwards and all protests left Steve. Instead, he gaped in horror at the other man, silently pleading him to save him.

The strange neighbor evidently understood Steve, because he forcefully grabbed his arm and dragged him inside, dog leading the way as the second door on the 5th floor clicked shut behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it. Everything is over.
> 
> Nah, it's not (at least I hope not), but I've run out of pre-written chapters. And I am incredibly busy until sometime after friggin' Christmas, so I don't know when the next update will be. Please have faith and patience!
> 
> Also, comments, compliments, and constructive criticism are always very welcome.


End file.
